Foto dell'autore

Evelyn Everett-Green (1856–1932)

Autore di True to the Last, or, My Boyhood's Home

104 opere 253 membri 3 recensioni 1 preferito

Sull'Autore

Opere di Evelyn Everett-Green

The Lord of Dynevor (2007) 8 copie
Quadrille Court (1913) 7 copie
In the wars of the roses (2008) 5 copie
Tom Tufton's Travels (1907) 5 copie
Queen's Manor School (1921) 5 copie
Monica 4 copie
Priscilla (1904) 3 copie
Her Husband's Home (2010) 3 copie
Bob and Bill 2 copie
Sister 1 copia
Veikryss 1 copia
The Master of Fernhurst (1905) 1 copia
Hilary Quest 1 copia
Inch-Fallen 1 copia
Barbed Wire 1 copia
A wilful maid 1 copia
Syskonkärlek 1 copia
Miss Meyrick's Niece (1929) 1 copia
The House on the Cliff (1914) 1 copia
Sweepie (1918) 1 copia
AUDREY MARSH (1915) 1 copia
Pat The Lighthouse Boy (2011) 1 copia
ESTHER'S CHARGE (1910) 1 copia

Etichette

Informazioni generali

Nome legale
Everett-Green, Evelyn Ward
Altri nomi
Adair, Cecil (pseudonym)
Dare, Evelyn (pseudonym)
Data di nascita
1856-11-17
Data di morte
1932-04-23
Sesso
female
Nazionalità
UK
Nazione (per mappa)
UK
Luogo di nascita
London, England, UK
Luogo di morte
Madeira, Portugal
Luogo di residenza
Albury, Surrey, England, UK
Madeira, Portugal
Istruzione
Bedford College
Royal Academy of Music
Attività lavorative
novelist
young adult writer
romance novelist
moral conduct writer
girls' school story author
Relazioni
Green, Mary Anne Everett (mother)
Breve biografia
Evelyn Everett-Green was born in London, the daughter of historian Mary Anne Everett (née Wood) Green and her husband George Pycock Green, an artist. She was educated at home by her parents to the age of 12 and at Mrs. Bolton's Gower Street Preparatory School. She won a scholarship to attend Bedford College of the University of London during the year 1872-1873, during which time she wrote her first novel, Tom Tempest's Victory. She also attended the Royal Academy of Music for two years and worked as a nurse in a London hospital. In 1911, she and her lifelong companion Catherine Mainwaring Sladen settled in Madeira, Portugal.

Utenti

Recensioni

A bit of a tomboy is Audrey. She hit Ronald with a gold-mounted hunting crop. She is pictured on the front cover carrying something that is gold-tipped but looks more like a hockey or shinty stick or shepherd's crook.
 
Segnalato
jon1lambert | Dec 9, 2019 |
A Clerk of Oxford : And His Adventures in the Barons' War (historical tales)
"My son," spoke a gentle voice from behind the low, moss-grown wall, "we must not mourn and weep for those taken from us, as if we had no hope."

Face downwards upon the newly-made mound of earth lay a youth of some fifteen or sixteen summers. His slight frame was convulsed by the paroxysm of his grief; from time to time a strangled sob broke from his lips. The kindly-faced monk from the Priory hard by had been watching him for some time before he thus addressed him. Probably he now saw that the violence of the outburst was spent.

The youth started upon hearing himself addressed, and as he sprang to his feet he revealed a singularly attractive face. The brow was broad and massive, indicating intellectual power. The blue eyes beneath the pencilled arch of the delicate eyebrows looked out upon the world with a singular directness and purity of expression. The features were finely cut, and there were strength and sweetness both in the curved, thoughtful lips, and in the square outline of the jaw. The fair hair clustered in curling luxuriance about his head, and fell in sunny waves to his shoulders. His hands were long and white, and looked rather as though they had wielded pen than weapon or tool of craftsman. Yet the lad's habit was that of one occupying a humble rank in life, and the shoes on his feet were worn and patched, as though by his own apprentice hands. Beside him lay a wallet and staff, upon which the glance of the monk rested questioningly. The youth appeared to note the glance, yet it was the words addressed to him that he answered.

"I think it is rather for myself I weep, my father. I know that they who die in faith rest in peace and are blessed. But for those who are left—left quite alone—the world is a hard place for them."

Father Ambrose looked with kindly solicitude at the lad. He noted his pale face, his sunken eyes, the look of weary depression that seemed to weigh him down, and he asked gently,—

"What ails thee, Leofric, my son?"

"Everything," answered the youth, with sudden passion in his tones. "I have lost everything in the world that I prized. My father is dead. I have no home. I have no fortune. All that we had is swallowed up in paying for such things as were needful for him while he lay ill. Even that which he saved for masses for his soul had to go at the last. See here, my father, I have but these few silver pieces left in all the world. Take them, and say one mass for him, and let me kneel at the door of the chapel the while. Then will I go forth into the wide world alone, and whether I live or die matters nothing. I have no one in the wide world who will know or care."

But the monk gently put back the extended hand, and laid his own kindly upon the head of the youth.

"Keep thy money, my son. The mass shall be said—ay, and more than one—for the repose of thy father's soul. He was a good man and true, and I loved him well. That pious office I will willingly perform in memory of our friendship. But now, as to thyself. Whither goest thou, and what wilt thou do? I had thought that thou wouldst have come to me ere thou didst sally forth into the wide world alone."

There was a faint accent of reproach in the monk's voice, and Leofric's sensitive face coloured instantly.
… (altro)
 
Segnalato
amzmchaichun | Jul 20, 2013 |
 
Segnalato
Mustygusher | Dec 19, 2022 |

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Statistiche

Opere
104
Utenti
253
Popolarità
#90,475
Voto
3.2
Recensioni
3
ISBN
98
Lingue
1
Preferito da
1

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